


Jealous Guy

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's not insecure normally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I was feeling insecure

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [Thesmallhobbit](http://thesmallhobbit.livejournal.com/).
> 
> No spoilers for Series and not compatible with it. Written for a [prompt](http://mystradefanfest.livejournal.com/4441.html) (no 69) at the Mystrade Fanworks Festival.

When does it all start, when does he first realise what might happen? When Lestrade thinks back, what he remembers is the first Christmas he goes to the Holmes' and John telling him about the time he and Mycroft met.

***

He and John are both drunk, which explains a lot, and they have also just lost all their spare cash at poker. Which is ironic, because it was Lestrade's idea to play cards in the first place. The plan had been to leave Mycroft entertaining Mrs Holmes, free of Sherlock (who will wind Mycroft up), John (who Mrs Holmes frankly does not care for) and Lestrade (who Mrs Holmes has been known to flirt with, thus winding Mycroft up). Instead, it somehow ends up with Mummy and Mycroft joining in the game as well. Perhaps inevitably, it rapidly becomes a titanic three way Holmes struggle for the pot, while the two temporarily bankrupt non-Holmes go and have a walk to try and clear their heads.

"You'd have done better," Lestrade says to John, "if you actually knew how to bluff."

"Well you'd have done better if you’d taken your eyes off Sherlock occasionally," John replies. It's a remarkably casual comment, but Lestrade still goes rather pink, because it's not supposed to be that Holmes he ogles.

"How can you not look at him in those trousers?" he protests. "What was his mother thinking of? Buying her own son skin-tight jeans for a Christmas present?"

"Possibly she just realised his arse would look glorious in them," says John. "More likely, I think she got the sizes muddled up and thinks he's still eighteen. Or even twelve." He smiles benignly at Lestrade in the rapidly dimming afternoon light. "He does have a glorious arse, doesn't he?"

"Sherlock’s gorgeous," he replies, because he's no good at bluffing either.

"Did you ever...you know, before I came along?" John asks suddenly. "I mean, you'd known him for five years."

Someone should have told Mrs Holmes to cut down the alcohol content of that Christmas lunch by at least half, Lestrade thinks. But it's a moment for secrets and confessions, the end of a year they've all somehow staggered through alive.

"I asked him once early on and he wasn't interested," he says. "And he didn't seem like the sort of bloke who'd change his mind." He hopes he doesn't sound wistful, because about 99.9% of the time he knows he's much better off with Mycroft.

"You're much better off with Mycroft," John says. "More your cup of tea. He's really quite a decent bloke underneath it all, not a looney like Sherlock. Though when I first met him, I thought he was even weirder."

"He took you off to some warehouse, didn't he, and tried to menace you?"

"The menacing bit wasn't too bad, I could cope with that," says John, with the sublime confidence of the truly brave. "What was awkward was him hitting on me."

"He didn't, did he?"

"He tried to hold my hand to see if it was shaking. Did I not tell you that bit?" John says giggling. "There was a moment I thought I was going to be whisked off and chained up somewhere for future attention."

Lestrade finds he's trying to smile and not doing very well at it.

Oh, I'm sorry," John adds. "It was nothing serious. The moment Mycroft realised it was Sherlock I was...interested in, he backed off. And if you're going to be allowed to look at Sherlock's arse, I don't see why Mycroft can't have a dodgy memory or two."

"Fair enough," says Lestrade and tries to convince himself it is.

“We’d better get back,” John says, stamping his feet. “Or you’ll end up falling in a ditch or the village pond or something. Besides, I want to see Mycroft’s face when Sherlock cleans him out.”

“God, you must be completely plastered to think that,” he replies with a genuine smile. “Don’t you realise that My always has an ace up his sleeve?”

***

Sure enough, when they get back, Sherlock is protesting loudly about the mathematical correctness of his strategy, but it’s Mycroft who has all the chips. He also has the smug air of someone who has once again won at life and Lestrade feels a sudden desperate urge to put that smirking mouth to good use. He gives him a long thoughtful stare with hints of stripping him naked involved. Mycroft promptly gulps his mouthful of tea a little loudly and starts a convoluted explanation to his mother as to why he needs to go and e-mail Vladimir Putin immediately.

“On Christmas Day?” Mrs Holmes demands.

“It’s not the Eastern Orthodox Christmas till 7th January,” Mycroft announces triumphantly and hurries off.

 _Give him a couple of minutes_ , Lestrade thinks, _and then I’ll say I need to go and change my shoes or find a book_. Then he realises that everyone in the room is looking at him and waiting for his excuse. A consulting detective, his sidekick, and Mycroft’s mother: of course they can work out those clues. He sighs and says:

“Yes, I’m going to shag him senseless, no I won’t break any furniture and yes, we will be down in time for tea,” and then stalks out before the giggling starts.

***

Lestrade’s sobered up by the morning, which he starts with a bit more shagging, because Boxing Day is when the lower orders are supposed to get a little something from their betters as a reward for good service, isn’t it? But it’s not just reducing Mycroft to collapsed incoherence that cheers him up. It’s also common sense kicking back in and telling him not to be ridiculous about My and John.

It’s not surprising that Mycroft fancied John a bit, or maybe even still does fancy him. John is fearless _and_ cuddly, which is probably a nice combination in bed. He’s also attached to Sherlock so securely that it’d take dynamite to separate them. And Sherlock adores John, though he’ll probably die before admitting it.

And...and he trusts Mycroft. Well, not playing cards, obviously – he has a nasty suspicion that a marked deck somehow got involved in yesterday’s triumph – but when it comes to what they feel for one another, he has no worries. Mycroft and he love one another; he’s learned to be happy with that phrase over the last year. And the sex is good with some outstanding features (he’s been reading too many performance reviews, hasn’t he?) It’s just that he’s got to the age when he’s seen too many failed relationships, been involved in too many himself. There are times he gets cynical that any couple can stay together.

Which is a bloody stupid defeatist attitude, he thinks, as Mycroft comes back from his shower, and starts to pack. They are going to make this thing work, regardless of what life throws at them, because that’s what they do, keep on going, overcome problems. And if they’ve got through five days of Holmes family togetherness unscarred, that’s one achievement to start with.

***

And that would probably have been that, if it hadn’t been for Sherlock getting himself killed.


	2. You might not love me anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is dead and John, Mycroft and Lestrade are all suffering.

In the first few months after Sherlock’s death, Lestrade’s main concern about John is that he doesn’t accidentally or deliberately kill himself.  Mycroft phones from Switzerland a few days after he’s got there, begging him somehow to get leave from the Met to come and look after John.

“They haven’t yet found a body, so he won’t accept that Sherlock is dead. Insists he could have escaped from the waterfall somehow and so he's scouring the mountains. And I have to go off to Jeddah tonight. I’ve got a team on hand that can protect John from Moran or any others of Moriarty’s network, but he needs someone he can talk to.”

 _And what do you need?_ It’s typical of Mycroft, Lestrade thinks, that he’s preoccupied with complex organisational matters and doesn’t want to discuss his own feelings about his brother’s death. But no point in trying to raise that now. Concentrate on someone whom he might be able to help.

***

Lestrade spends three weeks out in Switzerland, listening to John’s increasingly frantic suggestions about where Sherlock might be. Because John knows as well as Lestrade does that every day with no word of Sherlock makes it less likely that he’s survived, that he’s somehow escaped Moriarty’s trap. But John wasn’t there at the end – a youth from the hotel who’d been acting as their guide had been trapped by a rock fall and he’d been trying to administer first aid. He didn’t _see_ Sherlock die, so he’s telling himself it didn’t happen, Lestrade thinks. Or maybe he can’t face the guilt at not having been there, not having protected Sherlock.

Even when they come back to London, Lestrade knows John hasn’t really accepted Sherlock’s death. Oh, he doesn’t talk about him being alive anymore, but there’s still something deeply wrong, twisted-up inside John’s mind. It’s hard for anyone to get over a violent death like that and it’s only now that Lestrade suddenly realises that Sherlock was good for John. That beneath John’s calm sense there’s a man with a record of psychological problems and a family history of addiction. It’s up to him and the rest of John’s friends to make sure that John isn’t Moriarty’s last victim.

So he and Mycroft are always dropping in at 221B, where John is still living, stubbornly refusing to clear away Sherlock’s possessions. And John often turns up at their flat in Chelsea, sometimes at strange hours of the night. Mycroft and Lestrade would both rather sit and listen to John at 2 a.m. then have him wandering the streets of London in a depressed and desperate state.

It’s only gradually that Lestrade notices that it’s more and more often Mycroft that John comes to see. There are reasons for that, of course. It’s Mycroft that John can ask about Sherlock’s past, and Lestrade realises sometimes how little he actually knew about Sherlock, even after all their years working together. And there are old cases that John doesn’t feel able to tell Lestrade about – though you would have thought the silly sod would realise by now that Lestrade knows almost all the illegal things John’s done over the last couple of years.

It’s also Mycroft John turns to when there’s another reported sighting of Sherlock and John’s hopes get raised again that he’s alive. Lestrade’s selfishly glad that he doesn’t have to be the one dealing with him at that point. It’s hard enough as it is to know how to cope with John sometimes, especially when there’s a big case on.

***

The first time he gets a strange case after Sherlock’s death, he texts John almost automatically: _Man been found dead with huge red leech beside him. Want to come and see? Greg_. Ten minutes later a reply comes:

 _No point. The police don’t consult amateurs. JHW_.

It’s a sensible answer, of course; he’d have a hell of a time explaining to his bosses why John should be brought in on cases. But it means that John’s not just lost Sherlock, but a whole side of his life. He’s got some kind of teaching work at Barts’ now – Mike Stamford found him that – but it can’t possibly be the same thrill as running after Sherlock. Lestrade wonders sometimes if John would like to be helping the police again, and is just too stubborn to ask, or whether it would be too painful to him to do so. Because what could make the gaping hole left by Sherlock more obvious than when everyone is standing round at a crime scene, baffled by what’s happened?

***

Perhaps it’s not surprising that John and Mycroft have grown close; they’re the two people whose lives have the biggest Sherlock-shaped hole of all. Indeed Lestrade can't help hoping that Mycroft comforting John might end up helping Mycroft as well. There are times when he wonders if it isn’t Mycroft’s repressed reaction to Sherlock’s death that’s really strange, not John’s shattered grief. That his calm facade conceals something too terrifying for him to express yet.

It’s when Mycroft comes back from China in August that Lestrade starts to feel things are going badly wrong. Mycroft has been evasive about why he needs to spend two weeks visiting Tibet, and Lestrade suspects that this is part of some particularly complicated and devious negotiation with the Chinese government. But his main worry is that Mycroft will have a terrible time, because he isn’t really happy anywhere off the beaten track; he’s the world’s worst traveller once you get anywhere with suspect plumbing.

Still, Mycroft is home safely, if looking jetlagged, and then John turns up that evening and insists he needs to talk to Mycroft. Alone. Which ends in some kind of shouting match and John storming off.

“What’s up with him?” Lestrade asks.

“It’s not important,” Mycroft says wearily. “He’s still upset about Sherlock, that’s all.” He won’t say anything more and Lestrade’s cross with him about that, and with John for hassling Mycroft and with himself for not being able to help either of them straighten themselves out. But maybe it’s just because they’re all tired and out of sorts, and things will seem better in a day or two.

***

When Lestrade gets home the next evening he finds a message on their answer phone from John asking Mycroft to call him. He phones John immediately, because he’s getting worried that he’s near some kind of complete meltdown. But John actually sounds a bit better than he has for a while, a trace of the old decisiveness in his voice.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Lestrade asks. “I think Mycroft’s going to be snowed under catching up with work for the next couple of days. Anthea texted earlier to say he thought he wouldn’t be home till at least ten tonight.”

“Thanks, Greg, but it’s him I really need to talk to,” John says. “Might try him at his office. But he doesn’t seem to be answering my messages.”

“OK. But if you do need any help, let me know,” he replies and hangs up. He feels oddly disconcerted. He's the one who used to be John’s friend, and now he feels almost superfluous. Oh God, why has everything got so screwed up?

John phones a couple of times again that week, asking for Mycroft and Lestrade starts to realise that for some reason Mycroft is avoiding him.

“You need to go round to Baker Street and talk to John,” he tells him. “Whatever is going on, please just sort it out.”

Mycroft gets that stiffened look to his spine that he always gets whenever anyone tries giving him orders. “He’s being quite unreasonable.”

“So make him see sense,” Lestrade replies. “You’re two grown men. You can work things out between you.”

***

As Lestrade expects, Mycroft does go and see John, having waited just long enough to prove that it’s an entirely autonomous decision on his part and not connected to Lestrade’s suggestion. He comes back and tells Lestrade that the situation has been dealt with, and doesn’t say what situation or how. They don’t seem to be talking to each other properly anymore; the walls that have always been around Mycroft at times seem to be being reinforced. Their bodies still come together, but their minds rarely seem to.

Mycroft’s frantically busy with this month’s financial crisis; Lestrade once again wishes they’d somehow thought to get together in the boom years, not in the middle of this never-ending recession. He invites John over for Sunday lunch the week after as much to provide some conversation that isn’t about interest rates as to check that John is still OK.

And John is OK, definitely more alert, less...dead than he has been for months. He’s almost the old John Watson that Lestrade used to know. Except for the fact that he keeps looking at Mycroft and then looking away. And that Mycroft is tense and uncomfortable and definitely _not_ looking at John. And when Lestrade comes back into the dining room with the dessert – he’s finally worked out how to make apple crumble, which Mycroft loves – he hears John’s slightly too loud voice says: “We have to tell–” and then cutting off.

Mycroft promptly starts to discuss the merits of the Bramley versus the Norfolk Biffin in a way that’s far from his normal gracious steering of the conversation and Lestrade knows that something is definitely up.

***

He shouldn’t be suspicious, he tells himself firmly over the next few weeks. In fact, what there is to be suspicious about? John and Mycroft are close friends, that's all, and if John comes round quite often to see them that’s nothing new. And it’s not as if Lestrade has come home to find the pair of them naked in bed, or even as if there’s some unmistakable electric sexual charge between them.   Mycroft seems stressed more than anything, as if for once he’s got some problem that’s not easily soluble. And John is very quiet, although with the look of dogged persistence that says he’s made a plan and he’s sticking to it. But there is a secret between them and it’s something big. Something they’re desperately trying to conceal from him, in particular.

But then, there are innocent reasons for that. Maybe they’re planning some kind of surprise birthday party for him (though given it’s seven months to his birthday, it would be a major surprise). Or Mycroft’s trying to organise getting John some new and terribly hush-hush job. Or it’s just that Mycroft’s decided to run a marathon and wants John’s advice on getting fit. Lestrade has no justification for the way he starts to worry about their closeness, for the occasional urge to check Mycroft’s e-mail or ask John what is going on. He resists the urges, of course, worried that he’s getting paranoid in his old age. If only he was feeling happier, but he feels weighed down more and more by the sense that he’s getting old and that things are not going to improve. The sinking sensation that things are never going to go back to the golden days. The days when Sherlock was around to make his life hell and solve his insoluble cases.

And then he comes home one evening to find that Mycroft is arranging to go off to the south of France for a few days. Taking John with him.

“Montpellier Rugby Club’s star three-quarter has gone missing before a key match,” Mycroft announces, “and the fear is that an international betting syndicate may be involved. My department has been heavily involved in tracing such syndicates in the past, so President Sarkozy has specifically asked me to investigate.”

“You and John?” Lestrade demands.

“He knows about rugby and he can carry out any legwork required. And I need a man I can trust to keep an eye on my back.”

“Hasn’t MI5 got any rugger buggers of its own?” Lestrade demands.

“If you want to tell me how to carry out my own job,” Mycroft says haughtily, “feel free to. That is, if you’re also happy to receive _critiques_ of your handling of your own team.”

“Fine,” Lestrade says and just about restrains himself from slamming the door as he retreats into the kitchen. He tells himself that this can’t be what it looks like, that this must just be a cover story for some super-secret operation. Not an excuse for Mycroft and John to...he is not even thinking that. He does not think that, he does not believe that.

***

Even if on the balance of probabilities there’s something dodgy going on, Lestrade tells himself on the first sleepless night after Mycroft’s departure, he can’t be sure beyond all reasonable doubt. Mycroft sounded entirely normal when he phoned in the evening. Too normal, perhaps? Is it possible to sound too normal? Is Mycroft normal in the first place?

He is worrying unnecessarily, he tells himself, but when he phones Mycroft that evening, his phone is switched off. As he dials John’s number, Lestrade tells himself that he just wants to make sure Mycroft is all right.

“Mycroft’s gone off to the opera,” John says, “so that’s why you can’t get hold of him.”

“I thought you were tracking down kidnappers?”

“Well, actually we found the missing player fairly easily. He...hadn’t been kidnapped, but his wife was dying, so he’d gone off to be with her.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“Erm, she was...she was an illegal immigrant. He didn’t want the authorities to know about her.”

John is a hopeless liar, always has been. For a moment, Lestrade is tempted to ask him directly what is going on. But if he does that, if he _knows_ , he has to make a decision, and he’s not ready for that.

“So you can come back now?” he says instead.

“The thing is, Mycroft thinks that it’s not really worth changing our flights, be more trouble and expense than if we just stayed here till Thursday. We’re not expected back at work till then, so...might as well take advantage of the opportunity.”

 _Yes_ , Lestrade thinks bleakly, but all he says is: “Glad to know you’ve got the case wrapped up. Let Mycroft know I’ve phoned, will you? Bye.”

His hand is shaking as he ends the call, and he wants to throw the phone at the wall. What does he do? What the _fuck_ does he do now?


	3. I began to lose control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft have gone off together to the south of France. Lestrade is still trying to tell himself it's for a case.

By Thursday morning, Lestrade knows what he’s going to do. He texts Mycroft to say he’s probably not going to be able to meet him at the airport and then promptly gets on the tube to Heathrow. When he gets there it’s easy to flash his warrant card and ask the security team if he can watch the CCTV feeds from the arrivals hall. It’s very busy, of course, but he manages to spot Mycroft’s tall smart figure after a bit. He’s walking along slightly more slowly than usual and occasionally gazing down benevolently at his shorter companion.

They’re not holding hands, nothing as blatant as that. But when Lestrade asks the operator to zoom in, it’s easy to see one simple fact: John is happy. He can see the bounce in his stride, the broad grin that keeps breaking out on his face. He’s almost forgotten what John looks like smiling. He’s an attractive man, of course; younger and fitter than Lestrade as well.

“Do you want us to pick the pair of them up?” the supervisor asks. “We can stop them at the exit, if you need us to.”

“No,” he says quietly. “They’ve not committed any crime.”

***

 To his surprise, he gets back to Chelsea before Mycroft and goes to their bedroom to start to pack a few things. Tries to think what to say: better stick to the facts, be adult about it. Shouting and screaming aren’t going to help. What John feels is clear and Mycroft wouldn’t have agreed to go away with him unless he’d made his mind up. The only dignity left for him in this situation is walking away now.

“Good to see you, Greg,” Mycroft says, as he comes into the house, still not quite switched off from the benevolently formal mode that is his default state. And then as he comes towards Lestrade, his arms reaching out to hug him, he stops. As if everything that Lestrade is feeling is somehow immediately obvious to him.

“Is this just London transport blues?” Mycroft asks rapidly, “Or because I didn’t come straight home? I felt I had to drop into the office briefly, check everything was under control.”

“Where’s John got to?” Lestrade finds himself automatically falling into suspect-questioning mode, drawing himself up to look tough, even menacing.

“He went straight back to Baker Street. I’m sorry, were you wanting to see him as well?” Mycroft’s mind is doubtlessly recalling previous messages, calculating timetables and action plans. _Soothe irritated spouse_ is clearly shooting up the list of priorities.

“I was at the airport.”

“You were? Then why–“

“I saw you and John. When you were going to tell me, then?” He can feel his own body tensing.

“What?”

“Your little secret.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mycroft says and there’s something just off in his voice that an experienced interrogator can recognise. _He’s wondering how much I know, isn’t he?_ No point in subtlety now.

“You and John. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That you could just keep on with this relationship indefinitely?”

“You’re suggesting John and I are having an affair?” Mycroft’s stare now is puzzled, his voice precise. He gives the air of a man who would never contemplate such a thing. There’s a reason he’s an excellent poker player, of course.

“You take him off to the south of France on some cooked-up excuse of a case? Do you think I’m blind? Is it that he’s better in bed than me, or what is it?” His hands are balling into fists; he is probably about to do something very stupid.

“This is insane,” Mycroft says, and _his_ poise is crumbling as well, breathing coming too fast. “I have never slept with John Watson.”

 _How can he sound so sincere?_ And then Lestrade suddenly realises. No, of course they haven’t done anything yet. This isn’t some brief physical urge that might burn itself out. This is something far deeper and more serious, the gut-wrenching need for that one person who can make you happy. John’s found his Sherlock substitute and he won’t let go of him.

“This trip away was...” Mycroft adds, and then hesitates. “It was not what it might seem. We had separate rooms.”

“So what was it then? Come on, Mycroft, you’ve had plenty of time to come up with a better cover story than missing rugby players, haven’t you? What’s your alibi for this one?”

“I can’t...I can’t discuss it.” Mycroft’s face has paled and he looks near panic.

 “Maybe I should phone John, then, hear what he has to say for himself. He’s not as good a liar as you are, Mycroft, I’m sure I’ll get the truth from him.” He pulls out his phone, desperately hoping that Mycroft will say something, anything, so that he doesn’t have to put them both through the humiliation of this.

“ _Please_ don’t phone him, Greg. You are making a terrible mistake.”

“Then tell me the truth!” Lestrade demands, and he is so near screaming that he can hardly force the words out of his throat. If he does start yelling, Mycroft will have won; he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand there and listen to that bastard make excuses.

“I...you have to trust me in this matter, Greg. And you have no reason to assume...” And then Lestrade can see something occur to Mycroft, and there’s a sudden fleeting resemblance to Sherlock in ‘thinking mode’. _What’s he planning_ , he wonders. Trying to come up with some clever way to wriggle out of this?

But to his surprise, after a moment Mycroft simply says icily:  “I don’t think we can usefully discuss this at the moment. Perhaps we could continue the conversation at a later date?”

“Fine,” Lestrade snarls. “I’ll be staying with my brother. Come and find me when you’re ready to tell the truth, Mycroft.”

***

 Lestrade knows the Met rumour mill is effective, but even so he doesn’t expect Sally to come into his office the next afternoon and say: “If you ever need somewhere to stay, sir, you’re welcome to come and kip on my sofa.”

“You’ve heard all about what’s happened, have you?” he retorts. So much for the _Secret_ Service.

“Well, you know Anthea and me are friends?”

More like fuck-buddies, he suspects; neither Anthea nor Sally are precisely the friendly sort. “Yeah, well, I have moved out of Mycroft’s for the moment, but it’s not necessarily permanent.”

“Anthea says she should have suspected something,” Sally said. “John kept on turning up at Mycroft’s office a while back, practically camping there till he got to see him. Stupid fuckers both of them; you’re well shot of Mycroft Holmes if he really prefers that shortarsed pillock to you.”

It’s tempting to tell Sally everything, but he knows it’s just going to stoke his rage up even more.

"I don’t want to talk about it,” he says and she gives him a sympathetic smile and goes away. He tries once more to calm himself down, to remember to _breathe_. He’s almost glad that Mycroft hasn’t been in contact, even if it’s just some kind of psychological technique to soften him up. If he has to see him now, he will...he doesn’t know what he might do. He has these visions of bone crunching beneath his fists, of wiping the smile off John’s face once and for all, of making Mycroft bleed. He’s seen far too many cases of domestic violence, he knows how ordinary people, sensible people, can end up hurting, even killing someone in this kind of situation. He has to avoid that, at least. He may be staggering round like a nicotine-crazed zombie – there is no way he can stay off the cigarettes – but he’s not going to end up in police custody.

One week, two weeks – no word from Mycroft and he’s wondering whether he might need to take up Sally’s offer, there’s a limit to how long he can impose on his brother. It’s not getting any better; he’s not sure when or if it will do.

***

The call comes at midnight, but Lestrade's still at his desk, because if filling out statistical returns can't cure his insomnia, nothing will. Suspect been arrested for the Adair murder and does he want to come and get briefed now? He's so tired that he falls asleep in the panda car, and it's only when he gets out that he realises he's in Baker Street and almost opposite 221B.

"In here," DC Oates guides him through a front door; he follows and finds himself in a large dark, bare room. In one corner there's a huddle of police officers. Over the other side, standing by the window, just visible thanks to the street lights, is a small and familiar figure. That slimy bastard John Watson, who is smiling and saying: "Greg," like he's pleased to see him.

Lestrade's fist is moving before he consciously thinks about it, before he realises that it's stupid trying to attack John. Who, sure enough, rolls back easily from the clumsy punch. Lestrade steps forward, swinging the other hand, because if he can pin John against the wall, then his weight and height might help him. And a strong, long-fingered hand shoots out of the darkness and grabs his arm.

"Don't try and do anything silly," Sherlock's cool voice tells him, as he steps into the light. "You might hurt yourself."

It's at that point that Lestrade goes officially berserk and launches himself at Sherlock, somehow managing to topple them both over. And after that, well, he's just rolling around hitting people, fighting mad from fury and exhaustion. Then he's suddenly face down on the floor with somebody sitting on his legs and his arms pinned behind his back. He realises that every inch of his body hurts and that banging his head on the floor is not actually a constructive move. Makes himself go limp, as he tries to catch his breath.

"Are you going to stop struggling?" Sherlock demands.

"Sherlock." John's voice is firm. "That's the sort of hold that leads to deaths in police custody. Let him go."

The pressure on his body reduces and Lestrade turns over very carefully onto his front. He thinks about trying to stand up and decides that's a bit advanced for him. Though he is pleased to note that Sherlock has a split lip now.

"Sorry 'bout that," he gasps insincerely. "Don't know my own strength."

"That was John," Sherlock says, dabbing at it.

"Slip of the fist," says John. He's not only unmarked, but looking remarkably happy, like a three-way fist fight in a darkened room is just his idea of entertainment. He hasn't seen John look so happy since that time at the airport... _oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck._ He tries to scramble to his feet and then everything goes a bit wobbly round the edges.

***

He's not sure whether technically he fainted, but there are an awful lot of vague bits about the next few hours. At some point he must have been taken across the road to 221B, because there is the old familiar smell of books and excessively strong disinfectant. He keeps on falling asleep and every time he wakes up he feels the need to ask Sherlock if he's alive, because if he is hallucinating about him he wants to be told that. And then he wakes up properly and it's daytime and Mrs Hudson is coming up the stairs with a plateful of bacon sandwiches.

 _Smells good_ , he thinks vaguely  and wonders if he ought to get up from the couch he’s collapsed on and grab a few before Sherlock manages to poison them. And then John comes bouncing down the top stairs, and hugs Mrs Hudson, almost making her drop the plate.

“You’re a saint, Mrs Hudson,” John announces.

“Just your landlady, dear,” she says, smiling. “Make sure you save one for himself, he needs some proper English food in him.” She disappears down to her flat and John turns to Lestrade and offers him a sandwich.

“Do you want tea or coffee to drink?” he asks and Lestrade mutters “Coffee”, as he grabs the sandwich. Because what exactly do you say to someone you were trying to beat to a pulp last night due to a misunderstanding about their sex life?

John retreats to the kitchen and rapidly returns with a couple of mugs. He plonks one on the coffee table next to Lestrade, who sits up and concentrates on drinking it, because it means he doesn’t have to look John in the eye. He’s still conscious of John sitting there in the chair opposite him, hands clutched round his steaming mug.

“I wanted to tell you,” John says at last, “but Mycroft and Sherlock insisted I shouldn’t.” It’s obviously going to be one of those just-the-facts conversations. Probably the only way to get through this awful mess, and Lestrade’s immensely grateful.

“Have you known all along?” he says, trying not to sound as if he’s accusing John of anything.

“No. But I guessed when Mycroft went off to Tibet. Sherlock’s always said he wanted to go there, but I couldn’t imagine why Mycroft would.”

“So what happened?”

“I confronted Mycroft, he refused to confirm it. But he was so evasive, I knew I was right. Kept on at him, and then I finally had to resort to blackmail.”

“You tried to blackmail My?” Lestrade tries to imagine that, but it simply does not compute. “You are actually John Watson, aren’t you? I’m not just hallucinating _you_ now?”

“I gave you coffee, didn’t I?” John protests. “Do you want another sandwich, by the way? You look like you haven’t been eating properly.”

 _If I was dreaming about bacon sandwiches_ , Lestrade thinks, _they’d have ketchup on them_. “Got any ketchup?” he asks.

“See what I can find,” John says, standing up. He returns with a plate and a rather sticky looking bottle. “Don’t drop ketchup on the floor, or Sherlock will want to do another one of his ketchup and blood stains comparison experiments.”

The important thing to remember, Lestrade thinks, is that Sherlock makes John happy, but he also brings out the barking mad streak in him. “How on earth did you blackmail My?” he asks.

“Said if he didn’t co-operate I’d hand myself into the police and tell them I killed the cabbie three years ago.” John looks across at Lestrade and there’s a glint in his eyes. “I said if I couldn’t have Sherlock the thought of going to prison didn’t bother me.”

The thing about John is that he’s no good at bluffing. No wonder Mycroft had buckled at that one. And God, how had he ever thought that there could be anyone for John but Sherlock?

“Sorry,” he mutters, and John gives a tiny nod and then says:

“Mycroft said he would arrange for to me to meet Sherlock, but it all got complicated, because the bastard would not stay in one place. We heard he was planning to leave Tibet, and then the next thing we knew he was travelling to Mecca via Iran and then heading off to Sudan. And then he decided that he wanted to do some organic chemistry research and somehow found himself a private lab in Montpellier.”

“Why?”

“There’s never any point in asking ‘why’ of a Holmes.” John says wearily. “I wanted to explain to you, Greg, especially when you got the wrong end of the stick about what was happening, but Sherlock insisted it’d blow his cover.”

“And I was right,” Sherlock’s voice announces, as he stalks down the stairs in a fancy dressing gown, picks up the last bacon sandwich and goes to lean against the mantelpiece in a decorative way. “I mean, it was getting ridiculous. I thought I could trust Mycroft to keep a secret, but he decides to tell John, and then John is itching to tell you, Lestrade, and once someone at Scotland Yard knows you might just as well broadcast it to the whole of London.”

“So you were prepared to put us all through hell instead?” Lestrade demands.

“Temporary hell,” Sherlock says, waving the bacon sandwich airily. “Life seems much rosier, now, doesn’t it? All the sweeter for being conscious of what you so nearly lost.”

“Shut up, you tosser,” John replies, but there’s a warmth in his voice that reminds Lestrade that’s he’s probably just in the way again. He suspects that as soon as Sherlock’s had something to eat, John is going to feel the need to fuck him fairly thoroughly just to remind him not to muck around. Which – _oh God_ – means that he needs to get out of here and face the world. Including the Mycroft-shaped bit of it.

“So have you told Mycroft about last night and capturing Sebastian Moran?” he asks.

“Sent him a text,” Sherlock says. “From the pattern of his recent messages, I suspect he’s currently in the eastern time zone of the US. He is very predictable in the times of day at which he feels the need to phone up and reproach me.”

 _Fuck_. It was going to be tough enough sorting things out with Mycroft. How the hell did he do it if he wasn’t even in the country? Still, first thing to do was go and have a shower and a shave and try to get himself presentable. And then, well he’d just have to be prepared to grovel, wouldn’t he?

***

Once he's vaguely functioning again, he goes off to see the one person who always knows where Mycroft is. But Anthea just smiles her most maddening smile and says:

“Mr Holmes is on holiday.”

“Where? And when’s he gonna get back?”

“Not your business, sir.”

“Anthea!” he protests. “Look, I know I screwed up, but you thought he was up to no good as well, didn’t you?”

Her lovely smile broadens then, and she says cheerily: “Fuck off, sir,” and then returns to contemplating her Blackberry.

He leaves the office and as he’s standing in the street outside, makes a sudden decision, and taps out a text to Sherlock:

 _Find him for me, please. Greg_

***

He doesn’t really expect to get a reply; Sherlock will doubtless be preoccupied with John. But he’s forgotten, of course, that Sherlock loves both puzzles and annoying Mycroft. So it’s less than an hour later that he gets a text back which says simply: _Google ‘Mycroft Holmes’. SH_

If you Google Mycroft, you find precisely zero hits, that’s always been the case. But now, when he does, there are several pages of results. And on the first page is a photo of Mycroft at a posh party next to a good-looking young black man. Whose name, according to the caption, is Canton Everett Delaware IV.

Delaware, Lestrade discovers, after a bit more searching, is an advisor to President Obama. He’s also, according to one website, the third most-powerful gay African-American man in the US. According to some rather more toxic sites, he’s a Muslim sodomite with a new pansy English communist boyfriend. While “Microft Homes” is a “Euro-weeny happy to take it up the ass from a big black librul cock”.

There are certainly quite a lot of pictures of the pair together at parties in Washington. Maybe there’s nothing going on between them.  But as Lestrade stares at the photos of Mycroft and Canton Delaware he can feel the anger burning in his guts. The anger at himself. _I didn't want to hurt you, I'm just a jealous guy._ The version of the song he always remembers is by Bryan Ferry in his smart suit and pink tie, making pain sound glamorous. Not this misery that hammers through his head, that replays his mistake over and over again. He can't blame this one on anyone else. He's smashed up things with Mycroft, so Mycroft's found someone else who can behave like a sane man. Obvious thing to do. That's the problem with jealousy: produces what it fears. He's seen the pattern in so many cases over the years, and he didn't spot it in his own. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  
[](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyo1YNqmq2o%3C/p%3E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bryan Ferry's version of [Jealous Guy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyo1YNqmq2o).


	4. I was dreaming of the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's jealousy about Mycroft has produced what it feared.

Lestrade knows he can’t do anything until Mycroft comes back; well, at least is back in the country. Flying off to Washington to try and track his husband down might come across OK in a romantic comedy. In the real world, it looks perilously close to stalking. And if the right-wing bloggers get any hint that there’s a love-triangle involved they will go crazier than ever, and that’s not going to go down well with Mycroft. He has to avoid getting them any deeper in the shit.

He falls back into survival mode, and ironically it's almost back to what it was like when Sherlock died. When he'd thought Sherlock was dead. He makes himself get up in the morning and shave and go to work on time in mostly ironed shirts and not fall apart at the seams. And if his handling of cases isn't exactly brilliant, does it matter? The crime rate's down with Moriarty finally gone and he has a consulting detective genius on hand for when he's baffled, which frankly is most of the time. Sherlock is, of course, indifferent to the fact that Lestrade is a walking wreck. And John – well, John is still at the point where about 95% of his concentration is on Sherlock, as if he daren't look away from him for more than two minutes or he might disappear again, turn out to be a ghost all along. Things are never going to be quite the same for him either, are they? You fix the broken bones, but some of the scars linger.

Lestrade realises one day that Mycroft must have been in the States for nearly a month. Wonders, as usual, when he’s going to come back, and has an abrupt panicky thought: _Maybe he won’t_. Surely Mycroft would never abandon Britain? But if he’s really serious about this Canton bloke, what might happen? The Washington gossip sites make it clear they’re still involved, you apparently can’t breathe within the Beltway without someone blogging it. And Sherlock always used to say that Mycroft practically ran the CIA on a freelance basis. Maybe he could find a job over there if he wanted to.

He’ll come back for Christmas at least, Lestrade tells himself hurriedly. Or to sort out the divorce. He wonders again whether he should write to Mycroft, but how can he explain himself? How can he put into words his own ridiculous jealousy, the illusions that were clouding his mind? It’d just confirm to Mycroft that he’s better off with his new boyfriend. You can’t unscramble this mess.

***

The text from Sherlock arrives when Lestrade’s sitting in his office just before lunchtime, trying to convince himself that a packet of crisps and a past-its-sell-by date yogurt really is a healthy lunch.

  _I’ve sent you an e-mail with a link to a video. Watch it_. _SH_

He texts back rapidly _: Safe for work?_

 _No violence and definitely no nudity. SH_

Lestrade’s aware that leaves whole categories of problematic material unaccounted for, but at least Sherlock’s unlikely to send a video of a cute animal to him unless it’s one with potential as a murder weapon. And when he clicks on the link, what comes up is a security camera eye view of an interior: the living room in 221B, no mistaking that wallpaper. Mycroft’s bugging Baker Street again, is he? What does he think he’s doing?

What Mycroft’s doing, he suddenly realises, is sitting there in the flat staring crossly at Sherlock, who’s fiddling with his phone. Mycroft’s back in London, then, and Lestrade’s heart is suddenly hammering as if he’s in the room with him.

 _What do you think you’re playing at,_ he texts Sherlock. The reply is immediate:

 _Proving a point. SH_

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Mycroft demands of the onscreen Sherlock.

“Proving a point. I told you I had information about Lestrade and here you are.”

“What you’re _doing_ is interfering in my private life,” Mycroft says, and it’s amazing the reproachful note he can get into that statement. Lestrade tries to keep the volume of his swearing down at this point because there have been recent complaints from the people outside his office.

“I’m merely providing a few data points,” Sherlock says, smiling down at his phone. “Such as that Lestrade is smoking again. Quite heavily, I deduce, despite his attempts at concealment. I pick-pocketed one pack of twenty and he was halfway through a second pack by the time I pick-pocketed him again the next day.”

“And?” Mycroft asks in a freezing tone. Sherlock turns his infuriating smile on his brother.

“And if he has a heart attack or gets lung cancer it would be inconvenient for me and Mummy would be cross.”

“I’m not Greg’s keeper.”

“Just as well, or you’d be prosecuted for cruelty to a dumb animal,” Sherlock says. “But if you want to dissolve your civil partnership, I suggest you two actually discuss the matter. It’s become extremely boring watching you fooling around with Delaware and trying to make Lestrade jealous. You have no flair for adultery. Have you actually had sex with the man, yet, by the way? Or does that depend on what definition of sex you’re using?”

Even with the poor quality image, Lestrade can see Mycroft’s body stiffen at that one, look away from Sherlock, straight towards the camera. And then there’s a sudden stillness. _Oh fuck_ , Lestrade thinks. He didn’t know the camera was there, did he? Not Mycroft bugging 221B, but Sherlock bugging his own flat, setting up Mycroft...

“I think,” Mycroft says very calmly, as he stares unblinkingly into the camera, “that I would prefer this discussion without Sherlock as your proxy, Greg. I presume you’re at New Scotland Yard, so meet me at Queen Anne’s Cafe on Broadway in quarter of an hour, please.”

***

Lestrade orders a skinny latte for Mycroft and a double espresso for himself, and tries to brace himself for getting chewed out. Though he can tell as soon as Mycroft's tall, tense figure appears at his table that he's in one of those 'more in sorrow than anger' moods that always make Lestrade feel like an ignorant, blundering idiot. Well, that's pretty appropriate, isn't it?

"Good afternoon, Greg," Mycroft says, as calmly as if this is some formal briefing meeting. Lestrade braces himself, wishing the smoking ban had never been invented, because he needs every chemical help he can get right now.

"Before you start, My," he says, "I didn't know what Sherlock was planning with the camera feed, but I still shouldn't have watched a private conversation. I shouldn't have started smoking again and I really should have trusted you and John. Anything else you need me to apologise for?" It comes out more belligerently than he intends, but he's never been good at grovelling.

"The reason you are no good at card games," Mycroft replies, sitting down very slowly, and delicately picking up his coffee, "is that you always show your hand far too soon.  And that you don't even realise when you hold an ace."

"What do you mean?" He looks into Mycroft's grey eyes, which slide away from his face, and he realises that Mycroft's calm is all just a front, a shield for something painfully vulnerable.

"There is something you don't need to apologise for. Did it never occur to you when you thought I was cheating on you that you could find someone yourself, indulge in a little tit for tat? Or when you'd walked out on me?"

It's a good job Lestrade's sitting down, because he can _feel_ his legs give way in shock.

"I, I...no. Just...no."

"My immediate hypothesis after your accusation," Mycroft says very quietly, fiddling with his cup, “was that you were projecting your desires, or trying to excuse your own conduct. I had you watched, of course, to see if you were cheating on me, while I sought out someone who would allow me to retaliate if you were."

"Canton Delaware."

"You believed the worst of me, why not confirm it? Even when I knew that there was no-one else involved on your side. I told myself it was justified."

"It was," Lestrade says, and now his body feels not just shaky but almost too heavy to keep upright. Like it's made of some bizarre lead jelly. He takes a last swallow of his coffee, but it doesn't help.

"No," Mycroft says, and his fingers come across the table to brush, very gently against Lestrade's hand, clenched round its mug. "The first rule of strategy, the most important one, is very simple. When you're in a hole, stop digging. I didn't sleep with Canton, because just in time I realised that I still wanted you, and that hurting you, betraying you, wasn't going to help. And how could I complain about your lack of trust when I'd promptly unleashed a surveillance team on you? I have been gravely at fault as well, Greg, and I must apologise."

Their fingers are intertwining almost automatically now, but it's not as simple as that, Lestrade knows.

"It's OK," he says, even though they both know it isn't. "We're been idiots, haven't we?"

 Mycroft nods, and then says slowly, "But I must ask...why did you believe it? Of John, if not of me?"

Lestrade winces at that, but he forces himself to look at Mycroft. "He said once...you fancied him."

"I did," Mycroft says, "but there've been other men in the past, for both of us. And you're not normally jealous...or _insecure_." There is something in the way he says the last word that suggests to Lestrade whole new cans of worms best left firmly unopened.

"It was Sherlock dying," he says, instead. "That kind of sudden death, murder, it screws people up. People do crazy things from grief sometimes."

Mycroft sits there and Lestrade can _hear_ his brain processing that idea. Just occasionally you remember that Mycroft, like Sherlock, sometimes finds the behaviour of ordinary people mysterious.

"Sherlock playing dead was a good idea in theory," Mycroft says at last, "but an immensely stupid move by both him and myself in practice. I saw what it was doing to John, I forgot the strains it was imposing on you. I think, in terms of errors of judgement, we're more or less all square. Which means, Greg, that we now have two options."

It's seldom romantic being with Mycroft, but then Lestrade isn't really one for romance himself.

"Which are?" he says, and his thumb is starting to stroke Mycroft's palm in a way that he hopes is an unsubtle hint.

"We can sit here auditing our past mistakes in excruciating detail," Mycroft says, rather abruptly, "or we can go and have make-up sex, which I'm reliably informed can be immensely satisfying. Well, not so much reliably informed, as told by Sherlock."

Lestrade's unconscious cannot help flashing up images of Sherlock that first morning back in Baker Street, lounging smugly around like a bloody bacon-fed alpha lion. And then he sees Mycroft’s gaze on him and remembers that’s he really far too easy to read.

"Of course I think Sherlock's sexy,” he says, “I'm a bloody gay man. But I haven't slept with him and I wouldn't, and I'm 100% certain I'd rather have you than him."

Mycroft has the momentarily baffled look of someone whose careful strategic plan has just been rudely short-circuited. Succeeded by something that's almost a smile.

"That's a yes to make-up sex, by the way," Lestrade adds. _I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t mean to make you cry._ There’s a lot of hurt been caused by this whole sodding mess, but time to start fixing it. He digs in his pocket and pulls out his packet of fags and slides them across the table to Mycroft.

“Dump them,” he says.

“And the other pack?” Mycroft asks, in a voice that’s stern and yet somehow tender. “If Sherlock’s taken to pick-pocketing them, you presumably have an emergency cache?”

“I’m going round with cigarettes stashed in my left sock. God, I’m a mess without you, aren’t I?”

“I put on three pounds while in the States,” Mycroft replies softly. He overeats when he’s unhappy, Lestrade knows that by now. And that Mycroft’s embarrassed by the habit.

“They serve you far too much food over there,” Lestrade says, smiling, “hard to avoid eating a bit much sometimes. What you need is a bit of exercise, that’ll help get the pounds off again.”

“And you, presumably, need something to distract you from your cravings for nicotine?”

Lestrade doesn’t say anything, just nods. Because Mycroft is looking at him in a way that he hasn’t seen for a long time, a look that makes him shiver inside. Mycroft is systematically working out how to reduce Lestrade to a sweaty and incoherent wreck in the shortest possible time. How to reclaim Lestrade as his own, body and soul. Because they are going to make this thing work, aren't they, regardless of what life – and death – can throw at them.


End file.
